Young Gods
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: Immortality was good in theory, in practice, not so much. People weren't meant for this life, they weren't meant to be infinite in a limited world. It created a disconnect, the now and future inconsequential. When the rift first opens, the Inquisition is met with an impish immortal who may, or may not be, an Evanuris. Andraste help them all. MoD!Harry, Fem!Harry, Elf!Harry
1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE: TO CATCH A SETTING SUN.**

 **Harriana's P.O.V**

Harriana Potter ran. The ground beneath her feat, the tickle of dewy grass on bare sole, the slight bounce of loamy soil, made her quick of foot, cutting and carving her way through the condensed woods, dipping and diving, under and over, her course steady and true. In the cusp of night, the grand Yew grove appeared similarly portentous as it did stunning. The Yew tree shadows spread across the ground like leaking ink, rising and morphing, rippling and alive, the dense foliage eating away star and moonlight, lofty and unrelenting, and yet, caught between domineering glooms and ominous instinct, there was a certain sort of security to be found hiding in the dips of the rocks, the unwavering asperity of the trees and the sheer ancient age emanating from every nook and cranny.

Yes, this forest was exceptional. It was terribly, horrendously and grotesquely erroneous, but synchronously, it felt like Harriana had finally come home. No. That was wrong. She wasn't there quite yet, she hadn't _come_ but was _coming._ Malleable and infinite, like shifting sand. A force of nature. She was lightning and thunder prepared to erupt, darkening the horizon, the storm held at bay. She felt like she was _going_ home, just as one could feel a storm hovering in the air about to slink over the land. Almost there, but not quite. Just as with this forest, not quite virtuous, but not wholly malevolent either. Shifting, morphing, slipping, ebbing and flowing. Everything here was in constant movement and evolution, and yet, everything stayed predictably the same.

The owls lurking between tree branches, precariously watching her as she darted through this sweeping land, the moths humming through the air, fluttering and dancing in the shadows, bouncing from bark to branch, to flower and grass, and even to the crows, off in the distance, cawing and batting their midnight wings through leaf and twig, felt achingly familiar. Yet, they were _wrong._

The owls were too alert, even for the embodiment of wisdom, with undue attention restrained upon her every movement, her every breath, the beat of her thrashing heart and scattered mind. They missed nothing. And she knew, simply knew, with their great eyes, so extensive and open, there was something inside, something deep-rooted and astute and beyond good and evil and morals and ambiguity. Something _other_. The moths that twirled so freely, with their prodigious grey wings and wiggling antennae, shimmered with unfiltered light, green and vivid and boiling and burning, too much, so much in fact that Harriana dared not look directly at one.

The crows in the distance taunted her, she could, perhaps impossibly, hear the beat of their wings, mimicking and mocking the stutter of her heart, pointing out the missed step or faltered leap, their caws nothing but laughter at her failures. The sweet-smelling lilt of lilies, marigolds and roses, flowers that littered this ethereal wood, singing in the air were cloying, suffocating, repugnant, but also welcoming, soothing to her frayed nerves. This land, as odd as it sounded, was at dreadful war with itself, if anything of the like could be possible. It could not decide between being friend or foe, hearth or prison cell, saviour or slayer. But, then again, none of that mattered, not truly, when in front of her, just out of reach, the shadow of her father dipped around another gnarled tree, forcing Harriana to hastily blaze after his phantom.

"Dad, wait, please!"

She cried out for what must have been the hundredth time. Her voice was raw, aching at this point, tight and hoarse. How long had she been screaming for him only to let her roars fall on deaf ears? How long had she been running? How long had she been dashing barefoot around this endless forest? For eternity and yet not for a single moment. It was all so very contradictory. Like these woods. Like many dreams.

Oh, yes, Harriana knew she was dreaming with a throbbing lucidity. She, throughout her life, however short it may have been, or anciently extended, this land made her confused and muddled on even the most simple of facts, had many dreams just as this one. Running, these woods, everything bathed in an eerie green hue. Bone deep familiarity. Countless times she found herself here, all over again, James's back to her, and when she reached out, spoke, called to him, pleaded and begged for her father to look at her, he would run and she would chase. The routine of it felt comforting, if not entirely entrapping. It was a cycle, one she wasn't utterly sure she wanted to break free from.

Most times, Harriana never even saw her father, and she purely wandered this land of jaded shadows and emerald wisps, content in her curiosity and innocent fumblings. Sometimes, James Potter would appear, she would run, he had proved to be too fast for her still juvenile gate and speed, and those dreams ended quickly in her childhood years. Occasionally, as she grew and aged, mastered her own body, magic and mind, they drew on and on and on until she fell to her knees, exhausted. Those times, well, Harriana could tell he was holding back, lagging, daring her closer, almost pleading for her to reach him this one time, silently, but she had always been too sluggish and as if he, this spectre of her father, knew she was still too young, too naive currently, ended the great game as he faded away like green sparks zapping in the wind.

Yet, the drive to reach James Potter, the compulsion, the need to touch him and see his face, just one time, never lessoned. It was a need, not a want. You didn't _want_ air. You didn't _want_ water. You didn't _want_ blood or guts or organs. You _needed_ them. Just as Harriana _needed_ her father to see her, even if but in a dream, and she had never gotten as close as she had that night. She knew if she were to reach out, stretch her arm as far as tendon and joint would let her, strain and grasp, her fingertips would brush the back of James's shirt. He was there, so close. She only needed one more inch. Yet, just as it came to fruition, just as she was about to win this everlasting game of chase, as fingers skimmed cotton, James took another keen turn, disappearing down a rock-strewn incline hiding behind a barrelled tree trunk.

Harriana tried to follow, but the abrupt shift of forgiving grass to craggy rock sent her ankle twisting and before she could blink, she was careening down, smashing, rolling. Nauseatingly, the world around her reeled, distorting together into glimmers of green and in the back of her mind, she could hear her mother screaming once more. When Harriana finally came to a thudding halt at the bottom of the incline, fixed on knee and forearm, she groaned heartily as she pushed herself back to a stand.

"Father?"

Harriana called out once more, hissing at the twinge of pain to her twisted foot as she steadied herself. Silence greeted her. As the change of grass to rock had thrown her, so did this silence. No thrumming crows. No brightly humming moths. No twittering owls. No groaning trees. Nothing but the pounding of her own heart. There was nothing awfully frightening about this new place, no demon or ghost to haunt and taunt her as she sometimes dreamed of in this vast land, but she could feel it. The shift had swung and landed and this, this little opening that led to a blackened cave, felt definitively malicious.

The grass was dead here, withered and dry. The trees curtained them off, almost as if they too were too afraid to venture too near the cave, or stood sentinel to it, guarding and obstructing wanderers such as she. Two brass scones with torches stood on either side of the cave, fire flickering but gone was warmth and life in rich red, replaced by blinding, frigid and biting blue. Unnatural. _Magic._ Nonetheless, she had found the crows nests, as they perched upon the top lip of the cave, looking like Celtic gargoyles, staring at her with their beady eyes, heads twitching left and right, observing.

Not too far ahead stood the back of her father, right in front of the mouth of the cave, brazenly staring deep into that void. Despite the fire lighting up this clearing in the forest, the cave entrance stayed pitch-black, oily and richly thick. Strangely, Harriana felt the urge to scream at her father bubble up her throat. She wanted to yell at him, order him to run, turn around and leave, to get away from that terrible cave. Yet, her feet stood locked and her mouth clamped shut.

In all honesty, her gaze was not drawn to her father, precariously balancing between the clearing and cave, but to what stood at his back. A large stick, knobbed and winding, but erect and glorious, was pierced upon the ground, upright and proud, in the very middle of the clearing. The wood was ashen, old but strong, decadently grey like smoke. Elder tree wood if Harriana had to guess, and if anyone was to know Elder wood on sight, it would be her, would it not? In the middle, there was a swath of green velvet wrapped tightly, a grip that tied off into two fluttering tendrils, torn. At the end, the branch broke off into swirling twigs, twisting and curving, reminiscent of a tree, rounded and protective of the shimmering orb safely tucked inside its spindly cage.

It was the orb that gave Harriana such hesitance. It was an intense emerald, vivid and brilliant. The same green shade this endless land mimicked, the same flash of Avada Kedavra… The same fuckin' keen tint of her own eyes glaring back at her. Nonetheless, her attention was soon snatched when, after all this time, her father looked back at her from over his shoulder. He smiled at her, truly smiled, lively and sincere and it was all Harriana had ever wanted to see, all she had ever hoped to be given, the love there, shining in his eyes and kink in his lips… Then he took the final step and faded into the bottomless cave and Harriana's heart snapped in two.

"Dad!"

She lurched forward, arm reaching as if she could snatch him back from the darkness she somehow knew she could not, herself, go into. This couldn't be how it ended. This was her dream, was it not? She could will him back, force herself to imagine him once more and she could, just this once, pretend everything in the world was right and just. That was the point of lucid dreaming wasn't it? To control them, morph them to one's own likings and wishes. However, she never got the chance to try as something tall, slender and regal, from the very spot her father had dipped into, pressed against the barrier of cave and clearing.

Slowly, it edged to the very front of the cave, though it dared not surge any further. Languidly, mayhap a little listlessly, Harriana thought it _couldn't_ , and more pressingly, she realised it wasn't an it at all, not a ghost or demon, but a _he_. A he that was somehow, some inconceivable way, both her father and something else entirely. On the surface, in passing, his features were all James. Onyx hair, proud and refined nose, cattish eyes with arching brows and elegant chin. Yet, they seemed all the more pronounced on this man, and completely wrong in context. James's lovable and wild hair took on a sleek sheen, straight and long, cascading down his robed back and shoulders like a waterfall. James's nose almost seemed noble and snobbish on this man, his cattish playful eyes predatory.

Furthermore, the resemblances, however blurred they were, only enhanced the variances between the two. This being was taller, a head and shoulder above her father, rigid and lithe, imposing. James's friendly and impish aura was washed away, bled out and replaced by something heady and dangerous. Her father's pointy ears, ones she had inherited, attributed to the Potter's… Rumoured proclivities to interbreed with fairies, seemed sharper, more blade than ear. Much like her own, in fact. It was then Harriana comprehended the startling truth. As much as many people would say she looked like her father, the spit of James Potter, if the very same people were to see her and this being standing side by side, it would be him she would be the reflection of, and James nothing but a poor mimicry of the two. For some unknown reason, that thought both hurt as it did frighten her.

Perhaps because Harriana did not think this being was a man at all, no mere mortal. He couldn't be. She could almost feel him in the air, old and unbending, pushing against her own essence, testing. He was old, so very, very old, and powerful… And trapped. Yes, he was as stuck as she was. With the knowledge that he was stranded on the other side of the cave, bravery, and perhaps a touch of arrogance on her part, she was a Gryffindor after all, gave Harriana the ability to straighten out under his steadfast stare, chin tilting up proudly, daringly taking a step closer, voice rushing back to her throat.

"Who are you?"

His head cantered to the side a fraction, intrigued and curious with something glittering in the depths of his dark obsidian eyes. Pride. He nearly looked proud of her. He smiled at her, that same James warmth lurking in the burrow of his lips, just a hint, and then he spoke.

"Did you not call for me?"

It was a voice that wasn't a voice at all. It sounded like hurricane wind carrying rustling leaves and sea salt spray from a lapping tide. The language itself was foreign to anything Harriana had heard before, lilting and velvety, almost song like and somehow, Harriana understood every single word of it, and so much more, pushed to the back of her mind, hidden or forgotten, perhaps. How did she know a language she had, or so she thought, never heard before? How did one have a voice that wasn't a voice at all? These were fanciful questions, ones that often-plagued people when they dreamt, and Harriana was not immune to such frivolities. Still, she pushed through the fog swarming her, jumbling her, and took another step closer.

"Where's James Potter?"

He went to take a step, Harriana knew he did, even if he didn't move, but something stopped him and Harriana's half-arsed guess solidified in her mind. He really was entombed in that cave. Nevertheless, he lifted his arms, his robe sleeves falling down like wings, baring himself open invitingly, and that smile never dropped from his lips.

"Here."

Harry frowned.

"I-… I don't understand."

Yes, this being and James bared an uncanny resemblance, and true, in the light of day, she may appear more like this being in front of her than her father, but there was a dense difference between the two. Seeing her unfiltered confusion, the beings arms dropped but his grin only grew.

"The drop can become the ocean, but the ocean cannot become the drop."

Harriana shook her head almost violently.

"I want my father."

It was almost, very nearly, a childish, impertinent demand. Like a toddler screaming for their blanky. The beings smile shattered and something rapacious flittered across his face. Right. Well. He wasn't used to taking orders, Harriana surmised. He also seemed done with submitting to her wistful confusion.

"He is me as much as I am him. Harriana… Remember."

She felt him, not the physical body, but the soul, his aura, his essence, smash against her own fervidly and suddenly, the barriers in her mind were crumbling and it was then Harriana saw, on the back of her eyelids, a cup… A diadem… A diary… One after the other after another until she saw those damned red eyes and ashen skin and hissing curses rang in her ears. Her own voice mirrored his, ancient and husky.

"A horcrux…"

Suddenly, Harriana remembered it all. She wasn't dreaming. She hadn't been dreaming for a while now. This wasn't in her mind, and this being wasn't some subconscious message she had been trying to tell herself. She was here, in this otherworld, wandering, searching, learning. She remembered the war, the blood and death and fighting, so many souls gone, lost. Too many. Friends, enemies, family… She ached for everyone of them, every loss another wound that would never fully heal.

She remembered being a Horcrux herself, something ill and malformed inside her, invading and taking until finally, she had faced her own demon and slain Voldemort and that corrupt parasite, Tom's shard of soul, went into the sweet embrace of death with him and she was finally free… But the freedom hadn't lasted long.

She remembered the years after the war, that saccharine time of peace and healing, the contented period that followed as the wizarding world pieced itself together with crude stitches. That hadn't lasted long either, not for Harriana. She remembered Hermione complaining about a wrinkle as she stretched and prodded her skin in the mirror. She remembered Ron joking about a grey hair in his beard… She remembered staring into her own mirror, still fiercely small, still pale and youthful and innocently rosy cheeked… Still sixteen and unchanged, even as her friends continued to whither and dry like lush plants lost in the desert.

Harriana remembered the moniker they thrust upon her, Master of Death. Oh, the irony of all. How could she be a master of such a thing when it was she who would never get to face it? No one knew how she had gained immortality, though many had their own personal theories. Some said it was because she had united the Deathly Hallows, but Harriana came to refute that idea later on. The tale had never been about immortality or escaping death, but how everyone had to eventually embrace it. Some thought it was due to her untiring sacrifice that day, how readily she had forfeited herself for the betterment of others, and this was simply a reward. Harriana hated that idea even more. This, immortality, was no reward, it was a curse. Some said it was due to her… Exotic blood. Either or, the end result had not change. She couldn't reverse it and slowly but surely, she lost it _all_.

Harriana remembered Ron dying young, at fifty, after his Auror mission had gone wrong. She had kicked and screamed at his grave-stone, begging any and all deities to just let her rest, to bring him back. She remembered Hermione dying older, happier, grey and wrinkled and well-lived, surrounded by her children and grandchildren and still, even then, at her best friends death bed, almost like a sick joke, Harriana had stood at her side, holding her hand as she passed from this life to the next, still young and untouched, and imagining what it was like to take that last breath. Soon, they all followed. Luna. Neville. Shacklebolt. Draco. Pansy. Seamus. George. Ginny… Teddy. They had all travelled the path she could not walk down, all going to the land she could not follow.

Merlin, she had tried. People had given her ample opportunity. Stabbed. Hung. Beheaded. Immolated. Nothing had worked. For a moment, she would fade and then she would blink awake, whole and untouched, and then, the fading stopped all together and soon, even that was taken from her. Wars came and went. Harriana did what she did best, she fought, and she protected but all those she loved were striped from her. Immortality was good in theory, in practice, not so much. People weren't meant for this life, they weren't meant to be infinite in a limited world. It created a disconnect, the now and future inconceivable and inconsequential.

Time began to mean so little to her. What was a century but a long nap? What was a decade spent reading? Why form new friends when you knew, one day, sometime soon, in a blink of an eye, they too would fade and you would be left? People became something to watch but not interact with. Food turned to ash on her tongue. Drink twisted bitterly. Everything, the birds, the world, the people, meant nothing because, really, there was no end and everyone… _Everyone_ should have an ending. It was the way of life and with it gone, so was life out of reach too.

Harriana had tried valiantly to fight that apathy and divide that had threatened to devour her. She remembered staying, keeping watch of her friends children, and their children, and theirs, teaching old magic soon lost, listening to their own difficulties, but it became too much. They all followed their parents, they grew, as they should, and they died. Over and over and over, the circle kept spinning. Rapidly, Harriana could no longer see Hermione or Ron, or Luna and Neville, or anyone in their descendants. They were lost wholly and truly, ate by genetics and time. That… That had been the killing blow, the straw that broke her back.

Harriana was sure it was then she began to isolate herself. Her trips and journeys took longer, wandering from land to land until when she eventually got back to one place, everything was irrevocably changed. One day, everything was gone and there she fuckin' stood, sixteen and unmoved by life's hand. She no longer felt like a person, a sentient being, but a relic of a time long lost. So, she took her last journey and she left. There was one last hope… The Veil. Like her dear Sirius Black so long ago, she slipped between the folds.

Only, she had not seen her friends again as she had wished. She did not see her parent. No one was there to great her finally. She had come here, where her dreams took her each night and slowly, as time passed, she had forgotten, the fog of this land heavy and tempting and she became convinced she was dreaming. Perhaps she was, in a way. It was easy to forget in this place. Yet, everything here was new and brilliant and shining and Harriana once again began to wander. She saw them, the ghosts, the wisps, even the demons that lurked in the shadowed corners.

It was here she found a home. It was here where beings were like her, unchanging and un-aging and they wouldn't fade from her straining fingers. Dreams became memories of other people, old, dead people she could visit. Societies lost, ages gone, secrets… So many secrets to find and listen to like forgotten songs with the tune still humming in the air. And then, like her dreams in the wizarding world, James Potter would come, and she would chase and around and around they would go… Until today.

The being sparked at her accusation, but seemed pleased she remembered, even if it was in fractured pieces and jarring images.

"No, not so rudimental. Lesser? Yes. A shard of me, a slither, a drop of essence cast out into the void to take form and thought upon itself. His memories are mine. His feelings, thoughts, life, all mine, and yet, mine were not his. My shadow pitched to freedom which was out of my own grasp. Ironic, in a tragic way, that it was a deer that set us both on our life's path, in this world and the other."

Harriana turned a new appreciative eye upon the man in front of her. Were they the same, him and she? They had the same ears, the same features, but he was older, so much older and stronger, but caged. She knew you couldn't trust all wisps and beings in this land, for some lied and schemed and begged audience with trinkets and promises sealed in blood. Yours most often than not. However, he didn't seem like them, those demons who wore friends faces and heckled her. He also seemed too forthright, as if this, as momentous as it was, was small in comparison to what he was really hiding, hoping the shade of this admission would conceal it from her gaze. Everyone, even he she would guess, hid things. So, how far could she trust a single thing he said, even if she detected no outright lie caped in between his words? Harriana, decidedly, did not like these games of words and hidden meaning and in true Harriana fashion, cut through the bullshit.

"Why am I here?"

If what he truly said was, well, true, and James Potter had been some facsimile fracture of himself cast into the otherworld, she still highly doubted he was here for a family reunion. This being had led her here, after all. If everything was a lie, then what had changed? He was here, she was here, and he obviously wanted something. Likely something she wasn't all too willing to give.

"You've grown stronger, wiser. You've earnt your title and heritage. The veil is failing, the rifts will weaken the barrier further and so, I can reach you now. The time for the People to return is nearly upon us. It is time for you to finally come home and stand beside your brethren."

Brethren. The People. Harriana didn't rightly like those blanketed terms. Her brethren were gone to everlasting rest, her Hermione and Ron, and she had no people left. Additionally, she never had, and she never would, enjoy people telling her what she should or shouldn't do, who or what she was. If anything, she was the maker of her own destiny, even if it was the pathetic destiny to wander alone in this land caught between death and dream.

"I know who I am."

He was back to smiling and despite intrinsically knowing this man was prehistoric compared even to her, ten times more practiced and prevailing, she had the sudden urge to hit him.

"That's never really been true, has it? One need only look upon your ears to see just that. What was it they called it in the other world? Blood of the fairy? How primitive and derogatory."

Her jaw clenched. Unbiddenly, she remembered the derisions over her life, her ears always bearing the brunt, though, her small height took a few hits now and again. Back then, she had always been hiding, hats, corners, trying to blend in. She was just like them, her friends, just another face in the crowd and then the immortality came and there was no more running from the fact that she _was_ different. Perhaps that had not changed, she was here, was she not, still running? Nonetheless, she remembered the acceptance too, how Ron overlooked it completely, her difference, as if it did not matter, right to the very end. In that way, she was still one of them and always would be. Moreover, his soft prod at a sore spot of hers showed her that, no doubt about it, he was definitely probing around in her mind, wreaking forth things best forgotten. She would not be goaded.

"My… Genetic quirks have no baring, in this land or any other. Furthermore, I _am_ home."

Now who was the one who was lying?

"Not yet, but you will be."

It sounded both like a humble promise and a threat. So far, he had been dodging all of her question, but then she found the right one.

" _What_ are you?"

He turned whimsical and incompatibly severe and unforgiving.

"A guide… Fortune… Death. Many names and many faces, most lost to our people now."

There it was again. _Our people._ Were there more of them, others like them? Where were they? Did they too traverse this land morphed by imagination and concealed mysteries? Despite the cautionary feeling of this being, even if this was all a falsehood, the prospect that there were more beings like her around, the possibilities that brought, the idea that she wouldn't be so fuckin' alone again, never again, felt too good to ignore.

"Where are they? Can I see them? Are they here? When-"

The air around them shook, the earth beneath her feet trembled and through the silence, cutting her words to shreds, was an almighty rip as if the universe itself had been torn asunder. Harriana braced herself, feet and shoulders squaring, subconsciously edging towards the staff beside her, gaze shooting to the sky above. The sky… There, right there, was a tear, the light emanating from it blinding and hot, orange and strange and so very, utterly wrong. Whatever was happening was immense and significant enough to rush the man into speedy order as he levelled Harriana with a severe look.

"Our time has been cut short. I must act before the others do. You have a long and arduous journey before you… Follow your heart and keep true to your soul, Ashalan, and we shall soon meet upon Elvhenan's golden sea."

Harriana thought she could hear it, that rip, hear its song and tune and it was something awful, bloody, desperate. Like a death rattle mixed with war drums. The man barked at her.

"Take the staff. Now!"

This was bad. Wrong. A Mistake. That hole shouldn't be there. There should never be a wound in this place. The wisps, those peaceful beings she called friends, who took safety, purpose and heart from compassion and knowledge and peace, they were… Oh no. Danger. This man might have lied to her, he might be something else entirely, this may all be a game and he, nothing but a demon sent to torment her, but he was right. She needed a weapon and she needed to move, she needed to protect them, her wisps. Her hand shot out, but before she could fully grasp the long staff, the man spoke up on last time.

"Beware the wolf."

Harriana, whether it be the resemblance of her father, or the dire tone of his voice, took the warning to heart and shot him a grin as she nodded. Then, she grabbed the staff, heaved it free from the dirt, and disappeared with a pop. When she landed, she was in the far reaches of this plain, by the shadowed canyons where the demons liked to lurk and hunt and feast. At her feet was a woman. An actual, real life mortal woman. Harriana kept a tight grip on the staff as she bent on her haunches, running a hand down her soot-stricken face to her neck, pressing into the tender flesh. Her heartbeat was faltering, dying. The woman blinked awake, cracked lips parting as she gasped, hand coming up shakily to grab Harriana's own in undiluted fear.

"It's okay. It's over. Let go."

There was nothing Harriana could do but ease the passage and soak the womans pain into herself, so she could pass peacefully. This land wasn't meant for muggles or mortals. The woman was dead as soon as she got here, however that may have been. Likely by that fuckin' hole in the sky. With a groaning sigh, the woman was gone, her hand slacking. Suddenly, Harriana's palm burned, searing hot pain shooting up her arm, zagging down her spine and Harriana howled as she ripped her hand free, huddling over it, hissing in Parseltongue. Eventually, the pain lessoned enough for Harriana to unlock her muscles, unclench her feet and pry the limb away from the sanctity of her chest. What met her was a sight Harriana did not wish to see. There, in the middle of her palm was a tear, a green light bursting forth, etching across her palm, a reflection of the rip in the sky. She could feel it pulsate sickeningly, growing, pounding against her.

Hustling to her feet, the pain in her hand still immense and heartedly disconcerting, but, well, when did her luck ever pull through as the sound of scuttling from behind her echoed out, like a thousand feet tapping on sand. The body of the woman… It had drawn attention. Glancing behind her, Harriana was proven right.

"Bloody hell."

Harriana, once again, ran. Acromantula, or the embodiment of fear in this land, demons, spiders, huge and fat and swollen with sharp knobbly legs, were scurrying out from the damp alcoves in force, ravenous and on the hunt, drawn in from the smell of blood from the woman. Harriana pushed harder, urging herself to dart faster, strides long and balanced, hopping from perch to rock to indent on rocky pillars. However, the torturous pain in her hand, the odd weight of a long staff in the other, threw her off balance, slowed her down. Coming to a dead-end, the only way was up and so, Harriana climbed and scrambled up the loose rockface of a wide cliff. Her left hand gave out, fingers spasming from the pain and she slipped further down, swearing profusely as a rather enthusiastic demon lunged forth, nipping at the heel of her dust covered feet.

She went to swing the staff around, perhaps clobber the damned thing in the head, when on whim, the orb flashed red and shot out a burst of light at the spider readying to swipe once more. The thing screeched, high pitched and wailing as it curled its fury legs into its distended abdomen, bouncing down the rockface, hurtling through other spiders scuttling up. The staff… It was like a wand.

Harriana didn't have much time to contemplate this fact when she began climbing once more, the spiders hot on her trail. Nearing the top, feeling and hearing the hungry squawks of the plague behind her, was when Harriana finally saw it. Standing at the very top of the cliff was a figure, swathed in golden light, sunbeams and molten gold, reaching a hand down towards her. Harriana went to reach out, feeling hope and wisdom emanate from the wisp, but she was still too far down. A fang skimmed the bare skin of her calf.

Harriana pushed back, jammed the edge of the staff deep into the rockface and with a shout, flung herself up and out, away from the face, pulling the staff free last minute to take with her. For a moment, she was airborne, flying, reaching, that green light from the mark on her hand bursting as the golden woman dived forward. Fingers brushed fingers, the magic in the air condensing when contact struck, slithering between the layers of her skin, through her veins, scouring her bones, and then the mark on her hand exploded into shamrock light and the world ruptured.

Everything swirled, blending, changed and morphed, flaring bright red, grey and green, meshing and fighting and all Harriana was sure of in that moment, when she couldn't tell you where she began or ended, where north or south was, was the sudden feeling of rock, solid and flat, beneath her feet and voices crying out.

"Did you see that?"

"A woman… Elf?"

"Quick, healer, over here!"

But Harriana was collapsing, falling, darkening and for the first time in a long, long time, she was gone.

* * *

 **What is this? Where did it come from and where the hell will it go? Your guess is as good as mine!** This little plot bunny hopped into my head when, three years too late, I began to play dragon age inquisition and as most, fell in love with the bold egg who back stabs you lol. I thought it would be fun to explore it, so here it is! I hope you found some enjoy from this madness and are looking forward to the absolute insanity to come.

 **TAGS:** Fem!Harry, Inquisitor!Harry, Elf!Harry, MoD!Harry, Dragon Age Elven Race/culture exploration, Deep dive into Elven lore and mythology. (May extend list later in fic as we progress.)

 **Relationships:** Fem!Harry/Solas, Iron Bull/Dorian, Krem/Bard, Sera/Vivienne.

As always, if you liked this, please drop a review, they let me know this isn't just plugging up space XD. Until next time, have a lovely day!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER I: TO BE A VOICE AND NOT AN ECHO.**

 **Solas's P.O.V**

What were the Evanuris, but that which was millenniums departed and lost? To the humans, they were distant powers lost to time, beyond reach or reason, ash and bone, false gods to a foreign people both feared and oppressed. To the dwarfs, they were merely legend, tales to pass between tankards of ale, juvenile mockeries to lighten the mood or enchant the younger, more impressionable minds. To the Dalish, they were salvation. The one true path to reclamation of all they had lost and tried so valiantly to recover. To the poor elves stuck in alienages, they were an immaterial allegory to distance themselves from, names only whispered in private in the cover of darkness and secrecy, so they may, one day, assimilate into human life that would forever be snatched from their reach.

The Evanuris, Solas knew, was all of these, none, and so much more. Their power was gone now, whittled and chipped, buried far and deeply away, relics of a bygone epoch, ruins and mosaics half rotten and decrepit, the only signs of their once great empire. Yet, they had been morphed and distorted, abstracted from, crafted into palatable stories to feed moral and virtue to beings who could not even understand their names and language. Their once conceivable feats of victory and failure had been shaped into the stuff of legends, and in so, godhood had been granted. In short, everything that had been true, the small details and snippets of life, the heart of the Evanuris, their passions and vices, their laughter and tears, their very soul had been cut out of the elvhen beating chest and thrown to sea, never to see the light of day once more, and now… Now they were just fanciful myth.

But not to Solas. Never to Solas. They had all been friends once, family even, Generals in arms against the might of the ravenous Forgotten ones, who wrought anarchy and annihilation. Together, for their people, they had stood up to the tyranny, picked up their staffs and swords and swore protection to even the farthest flung clans of elves, long before the humans and qunari came to their land, long before the dwarfs burrowed up from their dank mines... Long before, when they were the first and only. In the beginning, they had so much potential, such heart and soul… And they all fell, one by one like the first drops of a rainstorm. Including himself.

In truth, the Evanuris were a lot like the spirits who traversed the Fade. Pure, innocent, their sole virtue the driving force behind their actions, words and intentions. They sort to bring it, this virtue, forth in others, to see it light the world brightly, to give and never to take. All of them, even Solas, embodied an ideal. Yet, just as the spirits were tempted to the world by the song of promise and corrupted to demons by the deceit that received them, the Evanuris had faced their own trails and they… They had been found lacking. All too soon, they had blindly turned from their virtue and sullied themselves into beings of vice and destruction.

Elgar'nan, their leader who was first to stand up to the overpowering might of the Forgotten Ones, had been loving once. He had cherished everything he came across, from seed to leaf to elves to sky, he had loved it all so brazen and openly. It was why he stood in opposition, to forces far beyond his own, proud and tall, to protect all he adored in this world. He became a father to many, welcoming and warm and there was never a day where one could not find him smiling. Slowly, though, that adoration became spite. The things he loved became things he wanted to covet, but could not, as resentment devoured him. Why did the sun get to shine more brightly then he? Why should the trees be taller than he can sit? Why should the People have freedom and peace when he had sacrificed so much, gave so much, only to never gain the equanimity himself? If Elgar'nan could not have it, then no one could and so, Solas watched, unwittingly, as love malformed to grotesque envy.

Mythal, Elgar'nan's wife, Solas's closest friend and confidant, had not been exempt either, though in comparison, she fell the shortest distance. In the beginning, she had been an arbiter of justice, the hand that raised the downtrodden and brought order and law upon the People. She had been idealistic, wishing the world to be fair and just, and for a while, she had done just that. Peace was easily won under her gentle hand, but gradually, that hand turned rigid and clawed. Her goal had been muddled, corrupted from justice to taking an eye for an eye and even then, she was likely to take far more if the whim took her. Starving elves who took bread from her temple, in desperation, were slaughtered for the imagined insult. Desecration of her land was met with total destruction of others. Invoking her name in vain led to rivers of blood. Solas stood by as justice twisted into raging vengeance.

Dirthamen, their oldest child and one half of the twins, had been garrulous and amicable once. He would wander out into the land, with bright eyes and a brighter mind, collecting and watching, writing and learning and when he ventured back, he would give all he had cultured to the People. Medicine, magical cants, runes, potions, all formed by his eager mind and handed over readily to see to the People's betterment. Nonetheless, his lips began sealing themselves shut, locking as distrust dusted his eyes to ignorance and blindness. He began to horde his knowledge, enshroud himself in secrecy and loath those who tried to better themselves by their own thirst for information. After he discovered something, he would destroy it so no other but him could gaze upon the truth. Solas observed knowledge transform to despicable greed.

Falon'din, Dirthamen's younger twin, once had been the kindest of them all. There had been nothing he would not or could not do for another, if he saw pain within their form. When one of the People were injured beyond the abilities of their immortality, a lesser version of the Evanuris's immortality, or became tired of the world currently, Falon'din offered friendship and mercy, and guided them through the Fade to gain strength once more. By Mythal, the mage had once saw an injured deer at the great oak valley and had taken it to the fade to find peace, where he stood sentinel to it for many centuries. He was always amused, always chuckling, bestowing fortune on all those he saw, gentle and kind and understanding. And through the war and the building of their grand cities and power-bases, he kept snickering and grinning. When war raged, and blood filled the oceans, he howled with laughter. When slaves were tortured, he smiled more sharply than a rogues blade. When the People called to him for mercy or fortune, he'd take all they had just to see them wail. Solas cried as he saw compassion corrupt itself into narcissistic cruelty.

They all fell. Andruil, who once stood for awe, her domain in the heart of the forest, providing sanctuary for animals and the People, crumbled to terror, enjoying the hunt and slaughter and taste of it on her victims lips. Ghilan'nain, who created the creatures who fluttered and swam and walked and danced, hardened from humility to irrational hatred. Sylaise, who contributed fire to the People, so they may cook and keep warm, twisted from patience to sloth. June, who invented Blacksmithing and weaponry, who stood for valor and courage, forged himself into rage.

And Solas? His undoing was the greatest downfall. A long time ago, so very long now, when he had been known by another name cursed by modern tongues, he had stood for wisdom. He practiced and preached the quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgement. To always ask questions. To see the truth for what, how, and when it was. Because of this, in time, he came to reason he always knew the truth, that his judgement was the _correct_ judgment. No one had been as clear sighted as he. No one could possibly understand all the implications and conclusions like he could. No one could ever be better than him. How utterly foolish he had been.

When Mythal was betrayed and slaughtered in her own temple by her families hands, he had saw all this, and so, with trickery and deceit, he set the Veil up. He sealed the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones, the ones that remained after the great war that is, away in the Fade and as grief swept through him, he slept. When he awoken and saw what his decision had wrought, the devastating descent of the elvhen, the lack of magic, how weakened and pitiful everything was now compared to what it had been, shadows, all of it shadows, Solas realised his mistake. Wisdom had fallen to pride, and this is what he had begotten.

In the beginning of his awakening, he had tried to make peace with this world, to see it for its own truth, but what he witnessed only disgusted him further. The elvhen of this land saw the Evanuris as gods, stripped them of their own authenticities, their language was gone, tatters and shreds, their great cities nothing but ruins, magic something to be feared and leashed, their lives shortened and frail, greed in all, wars abundant, blood and death on every horizon, and he _wept_.

But it wasn't too late to fix his mistake. He, after all, had created the Veil and he too could bring it down. However, here lied his greatest problem. After his long slumber, he had been debilitated beyond measure, and with the Veil up and slowing down his returning powers to a trickle, it would take centuries, millennia perhaps, before he could act and centuries, in this shadowed land of phantoms and feebleness, with the People suffering on the other side of the Veil in the Fade, was not a time-frame he could work with. With haste, and perhaps a touch more arrogance on his part, he had given his orb, his Foci, the key to the Veil which housed his own undiluted magic he had stored before the erection of the Veil, to the abomination known as Corypheus.

Solas had thought the atrocity would unlock it, destroying its putrid self in the process, and with the key and his magic free, the Veil would collapse, and the return of the People would be swift. The Evanuris, thankfully, had been sealed further inside the Fade, at the very heart of that realm, a place only they and the Forgotten Ones could traverse. The Void. Supressed and sealed and out of reach. It would take another Evanuris to find them, a powerful one at that, and only their signature magic to systematically unlock their seals from this side of the Veil. Given that Solas was the last free Evanuris wandering across these lands, and it was he who had tricked them into imprisonment for their bloody crimes and atrocities, so the Evanuris would stay in the dank cavity of incarceration.

Once again, however, he had been proven wrong. For whatever reason, Corypheus had taken the orb to the Conclave of the chantry, something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, and now the Veil was partially torn, a breach in the sky leaking Fade and reality together, spirits and mortals caught in the crossfire, and everyone, from dwarf to human, had been scrambling for answers.

Of course, during the distress and commotion, the smartest move on his part would be to integrate himself into the small sect that had set out to fix his blundering mistake. Not only would it, his help, go partially towards helping fix his folly that had led to death and sorrow, even if these beings here were but shades to him, unsolicited grief was not something he wished to bring, in any form, but from there he could begin to move once more. After he retrieved his orb from Corypheus.

Assimilating into the mix-matched sect was easier than he primarily believed it would be. Especially once he redonned his elvhen visage and shirked that of his true nature, the wolf. They were desperate, on edge, demons flooding their borders, their chantry in shatters, war raging between two of the biggest civic bodies, and the tale of an elvhen apostate, who had heard of the pain and hardship, who wished to help with any method he could, was both partially true and easily accepted in the hope his knowledge of the Fade could bring answers and solutions.

Nonetheless, afresh, his folly kept on giving. Rifts were tearing open all across Thedas, the insipid war between Templar and mage had exploded into needless bloodshed once more, spirits were being corrupted and abused beyond measure, insurmountable death was hovering at the horizon, and all this, everything, was his _fault._ Solas could tell you he had never meant for any of this to happen. He could beguile you with stories on how this, the loss and pain, wounded him more than he could ever verbally admit. He could look you dead in the eye and beg forgiveness for his transgressions, the hefty list it was, tell you that in his grief upon finding the world in such a state as he did, weakened himself, still fresh from his own actions of building the Veil and losing all he had ever known, all he had loved, the good memories of the Evanuris still haunting him, doubt at his previous actions crippling him, he had acted without much thought and this was his comeuppance. But he wouldn't. In the grand scheme of things, despite how true they may have been, they _were_ excuses, and did not justify his lack of forethought or alacrity.

The last gift of his grand mistake came on the curtails of a scout who was running messages between parties actively guarding rifts and Haven, the base of the sect who was working on sealing the breach. Solas was in the southern reaches of the Frostback crags, keeping watch over a rift that would occasionally spew poor spirits malformed by this world, when his orders of returning to Haven with swiftness reached him. Of course, to find the root of the urgency only took him listening. The people they passed on the journey back were abuzz, the soldiers murmuring to each other around campfires, rumours flying in the air like birds in flight.

From what he understood of it all, the expedition to the demolished land where the conclave once stood had brought back a guest. A survivor. Unlikely, Solas would first guess, as the explosion of his magic trapped in his foci had levelled the land, and the breach that had opened in the Veil at the point of access had surely sucked all inside the Fade, a place where mortals could not linger physically. Not for long. According to the rumours, it had done just that. The soldiers surveying the area had come up naught for answers or survivors, until a small rift had opened and there, conferring from the zealous and exaggerated tales, stood a woman of golden light who gently laid an elvhen girl on the ground in front of them before the small rift had zapped shut.

Predictably, the invocation of Andraste's name following such a revelation was soon to populate every rumour and tale. The Maker's, the one true god according to the chantry and majority of humans, wife had returned once more, to bless them in their time of need and, in turn, had given them a 'chosen one'. Solas found the whole thing droll, but his interest was piqued. Who was this elvhen girl? How had she survived the explosion of the conclave? How had she lived long enough in the Fade, physically, to return, be it by 'god' or something else more plausible?

Moreover, this glowing mark upon her hand, which the soldiers were calling the Makers mark, was, in fact, the anchor to his foci. If she bore such a mark, _his mark,_ the key to all his plans, it was surely killing her. Her death would leave unanswered questions, answers he needed to achieve his own strategy. The last push to Haven had been rapid, laborious, as Solas rushed to gain the answers he needed before the poor elvhen girl would surely succumb to his mark.

* * *

 **Solas's P.O.V**

Upon his arrival at Haven, Solas had been led, by heavy guard, to the war room set up at the very back of the chantry, which had been hurriedly transformed from a place of worship to a focal point of the groups endeavours. The room felt stuffier than Solas was comfortable with, the spiced incense was hot and heavy in the air, the lit fireplace condensed it further, and the candles littering the small tables lining the room bathed everything in a soft orange light. Soft to human eyes, that is. Perhaps it wasn't the sweltering heat of the room, nor the nauseating incense, or the bright light prickling his eyes, but the walls themselves that uneased Solas. Humans did love their walls, thick and stiff, hung with velvet drapery, closing in on them in some imagined protective embrace. It only made Solas feel trapped, cornered, and once again, he longed for home, with their open halls and sprawling woodlands and- no. Not now.

Or, perhaps more believably, it was the set of grim faces which disconcerted him so. Cassandra Pentaghast, a human woman with cropped dark hair, hooded eyes and a strong jaw, never outside her polished armour, was a Seeker of the chantry, a respected order which sort to uproot corruption and ill begot power by the orders of the Divine, head of the chantry, had quickly become a figurehead in the investigation of the conclaves explosion and search to seal the breach. Tonight, she was lingering by the impressive table in the very middle of the room, staring off into the fire, arms agitatedly crossed over her plated chest.

Leliana, a deceitfully delicate and graceful looking individual, with only sawn red locks slithering out the very front of her hazy dark hood, stood by the sole window, as thin and small as it was, staring off into the distance, towards the breach perfectly highlighted from her vantage point. She had been appointed the less honoured position of spymaster amongst their ranks, though the role fit her perfectly, her little crows fluttering through the land to claw at any secret, murmur or hint at the culprit of the conclaves destruction.

Leliana's friend, Josephine Montilyet, was sat at a corner table, by the fireplace, scribbling missives and notes with a deft hand. Even as ostentatious as her sense of style was, with gold woven silk and plush purple velvet bellowing her privileged background as heir to a high noble family hailing from Antiva, she had readily proven herself skillful and cunning in playing the great game of politics, wrangling in lords and ladies to send aid for their cause with only the sweet jocularity and sharp tongue a diplomat could have.

On the opposite side of the fireplace to her was Cullen Rutherford, his blonde hair windswept and his armour half hidden by feathered and fur cloak, keeping the chill at bay. He had stayed true to his humble soldier background, with the imposing presence of his Templar training. It was not difficult to Solas to see why he, of all people, had been granted the title of Commander, leader of their military forces. Cullen was both approachable to the men on the field, while still having that domineering presence to issue order without doubt leaking into his leadership from below.

All in all, they made a fine group, expressly when one considered that only fourteen moons had passed since the explosion and the sky was torn asunder. Even more reason for Solas to keep his tongue and wit in check. However, with their faces harsh, taciturn and lost, Solas knew that whatever they had discovered from the ruins of the conclave did not sit well on heart or mind, for any of them. That is when he saw it.

On the grand table by Cassandra's hip, gone with map and scouting routes, lay something Solas had not saw in thousands of years and, truthfully, had never thought he would see again. He knew that staff. He knew the old, massive Elder tree it had been carved from. He knew that scrap of green silk, a gift from a deer that been freed from the bondage of pain and old age. He knew the orb, the emerald Foci, housed in the cluster of elegantly carved branches at the head. He knew that curving blade at the other end, glistening silver, meant to precisely cut rather than stab. He knew it as intimately as he knew his own reflection.

Solas knew it because he knew Falon'din. He had fought besides the towering Evanuris, arm in arm, before malice had stolen his mind. He had watched as Falon'din had used it with deadly meticulousness, less often then he used it to heal the lame and sick. He had watched Falon'din use that very staff to light the way in the Fade for the People who took uthanera.

Before he knew it, before he could check his actions, Solas was before the staff, this ancient memory of home that ached, tugged and burned the essence in his chest, hand reaching, readying, fingers trembling, when another hand, tanned and scarred, snapped out and wrapped around his wrist, halting him.

"I would not touch that. We have lost five good men to it already."

Cassandra's voice was brisk, severe in its strong accent, tired too, and it was the gentle nudge Solas needed to bring himself back to his own body. Slowly, he pulled his hand away, in spite of his own inner protests, and let it flop at his side as he cocked a brow.

"Lost?"

His voice was innocent, inquisitive, naively curious, but it was naught in reality. If any other, apart from Falon'din, had tried to employ this staff, death would have quickly followed. The staffs of this age, their mages, they had lost so much too. Shadows of shadows, flickers in the wind, gone and wasted. Staffs, to the Evanuris, had been personal, linked to their blood and essence, not something to be bought for a few silvers at a market stall, crafted into being from their own loving hands. Additionally, the pure magical extraction their staffs took from the wielder would leave but a husk in any person of this age. The only one to ever touch Falon'din's staff, or any others but their own, and live to tell the tale had been Dirthamen, and that was only due to the tightness of their blood. Once again, Cassandra spoke up.

"Whoever touches it dies. Instantly. I would not have believed it if I had not viewed it with my own eyes. Their hearts simply stopped, and then they burned out from the inside. Seemingly, the elvhen girl was holding it when my men found her in the wastes of the conclave. Do you think this staff is tied to the mark on her hand?"

Holding it? Had Falon'din escaped the Void, concealed himself in young flesh? No. Solas did not think so. The seals were still active, humming in the back of his mind, his own magic detached and left to latch. Perhaps it was his mark, his own magic, as small as it was, seeping into her and the staff, as quickly as it was likely taken from the girl, had not killed her too soon when in rhythm of his own essence. Even so, it had likely damaged her further and quicker than his mark had and was, and the sands of time, it seemed, were falling faster than previously thought. He needed to know whether she had his mark or not.

"Mark on her hand?"

At his diverting question, Cullen, the least comfortable with talk of mages and magic, stumbled through his answer, flapping a hand in front of his face as if he caught a bad smell.

"Yes, it's… Bright. Green. Magic leaking from it… Like the rifts, like this staffs orb. Cassandra believes all are linked."

So this elvhen girl did hold his mark, the last key to bringing down the Veil, scarred upon her skin and, as was possible, too late to retrieve from her without losing the anchor all together. That meant her survival, for his plan to succeed, was paramount. If dead, all was lost, the death was pointless, the chaos and destruction redundant. However, to keep her alive and make sure all was not in vain, Solas needed to know how much damage she had done to herself by messing with Falon'din's staff, with magic and essence she couldn't possibly begin to understand. Moreover, he needed to know how she managed to get her hands on such an artifact when, for all intents and purposes, it should have been locked in the Void with Falon'din. It was too easy to swing the conversation back onto the path he wished it to travel down, but still remaining inconceivably neutral to outward observers. He had millennia of practice in the art of words, after all.

"I would presume the staff is old, very old, powerful. Its draw from the wielder too strong for many to handle and so, their hearts fail. And yet, this… Girl, was holding it?"

Lies hidden within truths, the most honourable sort of dishonesty, if Solas were to have an opinion on the matter. Not once had he outrightly gave a falsehood. The staff was old. It was powerful. It did draw too strongly from wielders not meant to touch it. Nonetheless, what was left unsaid was of most importance. How had this staff come to be here? In the hands of a girl who, strangely, had not died as finger brushed bark? Was there a breach in the Evanuris's cell? Falon'din would not willingly part from his staff, unless it was for Dirthamen or another family caste… To many questions and no answers. From the window, Leliana's smooth voice echoed out.

"Clutching at it, yes. We do not know where she got it from, how long she has had it, or whether it is this staff which caused the breach, but she came out of the Fade with it in hand and it took Cassandra's men hours to grapple it from her unconscious form. Which, as I fear, if what you have said is true, begs the question of exactly how strong this girl is if her heart does not give out like the others. Likewise, is she even a girl and not a demon wearing a mortal face?"

Cullen scoffed.

"She barely looks older than sixteen."

A dark snicker came from the window as Leliana twirled a blade around her fingers.

"Age does not equate to innocence. You should know this already Commander."

Before the two could breakdown further into senseless quarrels, Solas pushed himself into the conversation as Cullen opened his mouth to rebut.

"You believe her to be a demon?"

Could it be as simple as that? A spirit of some sort, who wandered the Fade, ventured too close to the Void and, for reasons currently unknown, Falon'din had bequeathed it his staff? Solas quickly brushed that idea away. Spirits did not venture near the Void, there was no purpose for them there to attract their attention, neither did they have the magical strength to cross the border and take the staff. So how in Mythal's name had an _elvhen girl_ got her hands on it? Cassandra pushed away from the table.

"She _is_ something."

Solas watched her retreating form, saw the fear and tension locking her joints, stiffening her spine, as he did with the other inhabitants at her resolute declaration. They were scared, though they were loathed to show it. So, this was why Solas had been called to audience. They believed this elvhen girl something other, and in so, believed Solas, with his knowledge of the Fade could determine exactly what that other was. If he was to accomplish such a thing, if she really was more than simply elvhen, he would need more. Under his stare, whatever scraps Cassandra had been holding back bubbled forth after a broken sigh.

"Once again, I would believe none of this if my own two eyes had not saw it. Upon retrieval, once we finally managed to get both the… Girl and staff back, her magic was flaring wildly. Oddly. Tents were turning to glass. Huts were being flipped upside down before we could blink, everything the same, exactly the same, but reversed. Rocks were floating up into the sky. People were being painted in blue and green, from eyelash to toenail. By Andraste Solas, there had been a sunrise at midnight! It was madness. We had to try and neutralize it."

It was easily explained away. The tents were results of transformation magic, the upside-down houses that of air, the painted people nothing but humorous enchantments, and the sunrise at midnight was likely a mass illusion placed upon the people, for he had seen the moon each night on his travels back and had not witnessed such a thing. Yes, it was all explanatory… If he was explaining the actions of an Evanuris and not an elvhen girl, even if she was a mage. Mages could not cast insentiently nor so wide reaching.

Nevertheless, there was the enigma. If this had been an Evanuris, as impossible as that conclusion was, they would not have sullied themselves to diversionary magic. For this is what that had been. Tricks to take the eye away from the watcher, to keep it away while this girl had been vulnerable, perhaps weakened by his mark, unconscious and at mercy, the magic seeping out to protect itself from perceived threats, and yet, refusing to harm, even to detriment of themselves. If the girl had been unconscious while this magic had formed, it meant her drive for pacifism was deeply, very deeply, ingrained inside her, in her very magic. The Evanuris would have merely laid waste to this place and the people, not turned their skin blue. Solas caught Cassandra's chosen word, neutralize, and his jaw involuntarily clenched.

"And how did you try?"

Cassandra straightened out under his withering stare, defiantly jutting her chin out proudly. Although, the longer she spoke, the more defeated she became.

"We tried to purge her. Cullen sent five good Templars into her cell for good measure. None left. They commenced the purging and… Exploded."

Purging. An act instigated by Templars to temporarily strip a mage of magical ability. For a mage, one Templar would have sufficed, and they would have been dealt with swiftly. For five to enter and none to leave, for the reaction of her magic to be as instant and brutal, strong enough to cut through the attempted purging of five Templars and wipe out the threat… So, what did Solas have? An elvhen girl who had physically came from the Fade, who held Falon'din's staff and not entered his domain, who wielded magic like an Evanuris, but employed it in ways they never would have, and who had his mark.

She wasn't a mage. Neither could they hold Falon'din's staff or cast unconsciously. She wasn't a Titan, they slumbered far beneath the earth and were giants not easily missed or called girl. She could not be a Forgotten One, they never wore mortal faces and the mere sight of them would have sent these mortals insane. She couldn't be an Evanuris… She simply couldn't be… If Solas still had his hair, had he not shaved it in mourning when he first awoken, he would have been pulling it out in clumps.

"And she did this with the staff?"

Solas asked, perhaps a little too smartly as Cassandra shot him a glare. Thankfully, Leliana answered him.

"No. She's been unconscious ever since her retrieval."

Solas shook his head. To channel such power without a conduit...

"Then this mark or the staff is killing her and-"

"No. I said she was unconscious, not dying."

Solas halted completely. That wasn't possible. Mortal bodies could not hold Evanuris magic. Perhaps the girl had held the staff for a short time, it was only a conduit, it could be possible the staff was damaged and, however it got here, the girl was strong enough, magically, to grasp it for a short time. But the same could not be said for his mark, the anchor. Even a slither of his magic inside her and it would have fought for dominance, ate her from the inside out, like a candle lit at both ends. With the breach expanding as it was, the mark would have been called to fulfill its duty, its purpose and the pull would, quite literally, tear her apart stitch by stitch.

"You said she has been unconscious since her retrieval. That has been a week past. From my understanding of it, people do not normally sleep for so long."

Mortals could not wield an Evanuris's staff. Mortals could not bare his mark and essence and live. Mortals could not physically traverse the Fade. Mortals could not! Through his swirling mind, Leliana continued.

"And yet, she is. The healers that have managed to get close enough to her, without her magic effecting them adversely, say she is more stable than most. Her heart is even and true. There are no signs of physical distress. No wounds, bruises or malnutrition. From what I am told by the healers, for all intents and purposes, she is simply sleeping."

But an Evanuris could do all these things and sleep soundly. An Evanuris, who was familial, bloodily linked to Falon'din like Dirthamen… His own child, perhaps, could wield his staff. An Evanuris could freely walk the Fade, both bodily and spiritually. An Evanuris could use their magic unconsciously, directed by whim and dream and instinct, without needing a staff to funnel it. An Evanuris could bare his mark, a drop of his essence, and house it comfortably, as they often did when they gave strength to one another on the battlefield. They could do all this and much more and suddenly, Solas was inconceivably struck with that horrid longing again.

What would it be like to not walk unaccompanied in this shadowed world? What would it be like to have someone who understood? What would it be like to talk freely in Elvhen without pretending there were only words and snippets left? What would it be like, not to be _alone?_ No. He violently shook his head, the action likely coming off confused more than guardedly hopeful. Now he was only projecting his own wishes on the situation, dreaming to see what his essence ached for. Home.

Wretchedly, Solas knew the truth. There were nine Evanuris, one slain by her brethren, seven in the Void, where they belonged, and he, here, deserted and cold and cut off from all that was wonderful. Home was gone, out of reach and, surely, for all he had done, for all that he _will_ do, must do, he deserved just that. Whatever these people knew, it wasn't enough to sow together the truth. He needed to see this girl.

"I wish to see her. Perhaps I can tell you whether she is a demon or not."

After all, this was why he was called, was it not? If it benefited both the assembly working to seal the breach, by either calming suspicion of demonic influence, or enforcing such a basic belief, and him, who needed to know exactly what and who he was dealing before any further action concerning Corypheus or his orb could be undertaken, then surely there could be no harm? Cassandra nodded as she headed towards the war-rooms heavy double doors, expecting Solas to follow. He did, after one last lingering look upon Falon'din's staff.

Soon, he was led to the bottom of the chantry, to the very lowest of the dank cells, which had once been a wine cellar but recently, he would guess, converted to a substantial prison, the oaken door wrought with dense iron, chains and glowing runes crisscrossing the bleak front with only a small rectangle carved from the middle to allow viewership into the frosty room. However, what caught his consideration most was the six mages posted at either side. Standing in casting circles, their magic flooding the door, lighting up the hinges and edges like a sunbeam bouncing off a rippling pond. Underneath their breaths they were murmuring a constant chant, guttural, lagging. Even from the dim lighting, Solas could see the sweat glistening on their brows and necks, the odd twitch of muscles straining and tiring as they weaved their hands together and apart, feeding the magic.

A barrier spell. A potent one at that. Prospectively, this was the cause of Solas not witnessing further exploits of the magic Cassandra and Leliana had described earlier. Cassandra pulled away from him, hooking thumb and finger into a pouch tied to her belt, plucking out a key as she sidled up to the door and unlocked the enchanted chains. From over her shoulder, she spoke to him.

"We have them preforming a blockade spell. It's the only thing holding her magic back. However, it is taxing for them."

Solas eyed the mages as one wavered in his spot. No doubt they would be swapped out soon, replaced by fresher bodies.

"I would assume so."

Even out here, swathed in barrier spell and enchanted runes, he could feel wisps of her magic lingering in the air, as if kissed gently. Tiny hints. Tempting tastes. So small, tender, it was hard to gain a solid grasp on the feel of it, the intent. That all changed when Cassandra pushed the door open, just a crack to slither through, beckoning him to follow quickly with a flapping hand, which he did as she resolutely shut the door behind them. For a moment, he heard the rustling of iron clanging together, the click of the lock and he knew the door had been resealed swiftly. Were they truly so terrified that whatever lay slumbering inside would awaken and then thunder through?

"There it is."

Cassandra groused as she stuck close to the door, back pressed against damp stone, fingers tightening on sword hilt. Solas followed her pointed stare, idly noting her term of _it_ instead of she now that they were in this presence. In the far corner, almost as if the body had been flung there to keep it as far as possible, lay another runic circle, hot and red and blazing. Another barrier spell. It was with this odious light, vivid and cutting, the only source in this rancid cell, that he saw the small form sprawled within it, crumpled on their side, face towards them. His tongue latched itself to the roof of his mouth as his lungs quivered to a throbbing stop.

His initial thought was of Falon'din, before malice and cruelty twisted his once handsome features into cowed, tormented versions of themselves. Her long onyx hair, as black as ink spilled in a midnight sky, took on a wild curly abrasion, like corkscrew rush, that Falon'din did not have. There on the hollow of her cheek, right before sharp cheekbone met curving jaw, was a hinted dent, a dimple hiding in slackened, slumbering face, another feature Falon'din did not have. Nonetheless, everything else so blatantly screamed of the great man Solas once knew that it was almost torturous to gaze upon her. The regal nose, thin and upturned, the cattish slant of eye, the strong arching brows, the pale skin turned alabaster by inky hair fanning around it, the lithe figure with long, strong and nimble limbs.

Solas would have first thought it was, indeed, Falon'din, death's guide, if it wasn't for the obvious differences that markedly made her… _Her._ The scar splitting her forehead in two was pale, silver, but zagged like a bolt of lightning, scorching. The soft curves were hidden underneath strange clothes, patterns most irregular, breeches made of a scale hide, dragon, he believed. Her feet were bare, as was the most case with elves. She was smaller too, compared to Falon'din's immense height, more compact and nifty. Solas's anchor, his mark, glowed pleasantly in her hand, crackling but unavoidably stable and strong. And her ears, slicked and knife edged like her brethren, peaking out between coil and ringlet, her left held a notch in it, by the arching tip, as if it had been sliced once upon a time and she had lost a chunk.

In his own ears, or perhaps in his heart, Solas thought he heard the joyous lilting laughter of Falon'din, the song he used to make as he raced through the woods, hopping from branch to branch, fruitlessly trying to catch the birds when he had been a child himself. She looked young, caught in the cusp of adulthood, sharpening with glacial elegancy, but lingering in the softer shades of youth. Yet, Solas knew, oh, he knew, their physical form was a cruel lie to what age had really born on their shoulders. However, her magic, which was heady in the air, permeating the very ground they stood on, digging into the stone and door, burrowing protectively, magic only he could sense to its fullest extent, told him the truth her visage could not.

Her magic was old, ancient to human standards, but paradoxically young, very young, to the rest of the Evanuris. It was bright, a lone star in a dead sky, beckoning, but light, a brush of velvet in a darkened alcove, zingy and sweet, honeysuckle dripped in bitter peppermint and the most of it, the heart of it, the pulse and flow was something he knew, something he had once known, the familiarity a shelter on a lonely road, the name on the very tip of his tongue, barely escaping him. It was soft but catching, like burrs on soft clothes, snowflakes on lashes, raindrops on lips. It was here, with her magic so prevalent in every keen intake of breath, lingering in his nostrils and lodging in his throat, that there was no running from the truth, denying the facts, turning a blind eye. Somehow, someway, there was a tenth Evanuris and she was Falon'din's daughter.

This Evanuris, from the taste and touch of her magic, could not be older than a thousand years old, one thousand-five-hundred at a generous push, and seen as Falon'din had been banished since the erection of the Veil, trapped in Void and guarded by Fade, for over three thousand and six hundred years, how he accomplished such an exploit, her conception, was beyond Solas's reasoning at present. Had Falon'din found a crack to slip through? Had this Evanuris been born in the Fade, beyond corruption and malice, slipping free herself once the breach had been opened?

For a moment, fear rushed him like a growling bear. If she had escaped, could Falon'din and the others follow her? Was she a harbinger of the bloodshed to come if such a thing came to pass? She had her fathers staff, after all, and therefore, she at least knew her father? He couldn't let that happen, not now, not when the People were in danger enough already if he wasn't sure of foot or steady in mind. His hand drifted towards his back to the handle of his staff, knuckles bleeding white as the image of a flash singed behind his eyes. One shot, just one, banish her and the possibility was gone.

Her magic stirred bolder at the perceived threat, flaring warningly, the heart of it growing and energetic, showing its face, no longer hiding between suggestions and smoke. There was no corruption within her essence, her virtue, not even a crack or chip. Whole and hearty. Untainted. Unmarred. _True._ Finally, he knew the name of the feeling that alluded him. As Elgar'nan once felt of love, as Mythal justice, Dirthamen knowledge, Falon'din compassion, Andruil awe, Ghilan'nain humility, Sylaise patience, June bravery, she felt like Harrian'nan…

 _Hope._

His hand fell away from his staff and the magic in the air folded within itself, abridging back into the form that was peacefully sleeping, gliding back into the bloom that had created it, _was_ it, and the air was left bereft and cold for its loss. As the magic returned home, the woman's breathing stalled, jarring, dropping and her eyes flashed open, trained straight on him as Solas was met with the swirling pools of the emerald Fade trapped in iris and pupil.

* * *

Some Notes for this chapter to clear up:

1\. Solas's age was a bitch to calculate, as it never explicitly states his age (For obvious reason.) However, I trolled through some forums and some lovely person had put up an approximation of Solas's age. First, in this fic, Solas was alive at the time that Arlathan was founded. So, in 1 FA, Arlathan founded. In 4750 FA, Elves lose immortality (Solas puts up the Veil sometime around here). At this point, 4749 years have passed. No one is sure when Solas went into Uthenera (Fade sleep the Evanuris and the People often did) but he says in Trespasser that he was asleep for millennia. In 7600 FA the Chantry was founded and "Ages" begin starting with 1:1 Divine Age. Each "Age" is 100 years. Solas is now 7,599 years old. 8 "Ages" pass. 8x100 = 800 years. Solas is now 8,399 years old. 9:40 DA, Solas wakes up. At this point he would be 8,438 years old. In 9:41 DA, Solas joins Cassandra and company. So, in the beginning of Inquisition, _Solas is around 8,439,_ give or take a decade or two. The Veil went up around 3,690 years ago.

2\. In conjunction with Solas's age, Harriana is around 1,500, with a majority of that, which will later be explored, spent in the Fade after she walked through the Veil in the wizarding world. I do think Solas would think of that as young, especially when the rest of the Evanuris are pulling in at the near quintuple digits, and Harriana has barely just topped four.

3\. It made sense for Solas to realize what Harriana is, as I gave her the staff (the staff plays a large role in the plot of this fic) and if anyone was going to recognize it, it would be Solas, as well as her startling resemblance to Falon'din(In canon it always says how similar Harry is to James and so I've kept that in line), and her unique magic that falls in line with the rest of the Evanuris. It all just seemed right, after a bit of well deserved denial at the prospect, that Solas, as smart as he is, would clock on to what she was. That being said, just because Solas knows what she is, doesn't mean he's going to be forthright about it. Additionally, this fic is about Harriana discovering what she is, why she is the way she is, what that means to her and where she falls in the grand scheme of all the Evanuris. (Trust me, there is a lot of plots and schemes coming from them lol).

4\. As for the Evanuris, I'm messing around with them, I know, as I will be, in my own way, exploring elvhen culture. I hope this doesn't bother too many people. I kind of like the idea that they are elves, but not at the same time. If anyone has come across the theory that the Evanuris are spirits who took elvhen form, I'm sort of going for that but not completely. In this, they are elves… But not as Thedas knows elves to be. They are similar, but different, a breed of their own as one would say.

5\. Something good being corrupted into its opposite evil is a huge theme in the dragon age franchise. I thought it fitting that the Evanuris fell to the same fate. Yet, in this fic, I'll be expanding that theme into asking whether that corruption is a stain unable to be removed. We see spirits being corrupted into demons, but never demons expunged back into spirits (Apart from Solas's friend who promptly dies XD). Are the Evanuris lost beyond reason? Are demons unsalvageable? Is redemption impossible? All questions and themes explored in this fic.

6\. Furthermore, it adds a bit of danger to Harriana. If she, like the other Evanuris, embody a virtue, which Solas thinks is hope, then she can be corrupted into a perversion of that like they had. A very dangerous corruption of it. _Despair._ Now imagine a being with the power of an Evanuris who becomes lost to such a thing? We've already seen hints of Harriana falling to it, her apathy at the changing world and her not being able to evolve too, her feeling irrevocably alone, her deciding to wander the Veil instead. However, whether she truly falls to it will be discovered later in this fic.

 **I know there will be more questions,** however, I can't give answers to them without ruining this fic. Such as, why does Harriana seem powerful when the Veil is supposed to cut off the Evanuris from the Fade, which is their power source? Or how did Falon'din exactly manage, when locked up, to split a part of himself off and send it to the wizarding world to form into James Potter and have Harriana? Exactly how is the wizarding world tied to Thedas and the Fade? These will all be part of the plot and explained throughout the fic.

I'm sorry about the extreme length of this note, the others should be a lot shorter, (Read: extremely shorter) but there were some things I needed to make clear before Harriana loses her shit next chapter lmao. After all, she has no idea about Evanuris, Thedas, the Fade or the magnitude of the Veil and she's going to be, to put it lightly, way out of her comfort zone and confused.

This chapter was a whopping 7.9K (Without this monstrous note attached), and pretty damn dense, and I know some of you have not played Dragon age and are probably wandering what the hell is going on, but most of this fic will be told from Harriana's P.O.V and will be explored and explained that way, so don't worry, I just wanted to quickly dip into Solas to gain a grounding in where and when Harriana appears in this fic. All that being said, do we prefer the longer chapters? Or do we like shorter, snappier ones? Let me know. Your wish is my command!

 **A HUGE THANK YOU** to everyone who has followed and favourited and reviewed! All your kind words really do breathe the life into this fic and I hope you are enjoying the turns I'm taking with it. As always, if you have a spare moment, please do drop a review, they keep me on my toes.


End file.
